The Sleeping Fiend
by infinitesparkle
Summary: Sherlock receives an unexpected visit from John and Mary's daughter, who is wrestling with an addiction. Can Sherlock help her without waking up his own demon? Rated T for self-harm and drugs.
1. Sherlock's new client

Rachel woke up, having slept like the dead. Her body was still heavy with sleep, and her bed warm and soft. As she rolled over she became aware of pain, and she remembered. She tried to move one arm and as she did the fabric of her pyjamas peeled away from her skin slightly, making her flinch.

A brief look under the duvet triggered a fleeting sense of remorse, at the sight of childish light blue pyjama sleeves, marred by ruining lines and patches. Rachel lay still for a while, her mind clearer than it had been for a good while.

The feeling wasn't one of disappointment; there had been a sort of inevitability to it. It was more a feeling of sobering, grounding reality. While she was resisting her demon, she could pretend it was all a game. But, the morning after, there was no escaping the reality of what had happened. This was really her life. This was unmistakably happening to her, and Rachel knew she had a problem.

She lay still for a bit longer, flat on her back, arms resting either side, feeling small and trapped and slightly frustrated. She knew she would have to assess the damage, but she didn't want to look yet; frightened of facing the ugliness and ferocity of the monster she was apparently shackled to at every moment. This wasn't the first time, but it had been the worst so far.

Rachel slipped on her dressing gown. She could hear Mary, her mum, clattering about in the kitchen. John was out mowing the lawn. It was mid-morning. The coast was clear to the bathroom, and protected by her dressing gown, Rachel went through into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

…

Rachel stood in front of 221B Baker Street. She wasn't even sure what had brought her here. At home, she had cleaned everything up as best she could, rinsed the pyjamas in the shower and stashed them, still wet, under her bed. Her arms hurt to bend them; ached now, more than stung. There were some deeper cuts that probably needed something better than sticking plaster, but she wasn't sure what, and she didn't have anything. She wondered what was in her dad's medical supplies, but she couldn't risk him noticing. After that, she'd caught the tube and then just walked, and walked on auto-pilot.

Mrs Hudson opened the door. Seeing Rachel she beamed, appearing delighted to see her, as if Rachel was the most precious thing in the world. Seeing old Mrs Hudson's obvious affection lanced Rachel with shame and guilt. She was far from perfect and she wore the proof of that, daily, etched onto her skin. But, having regained her focus she was able to smile back and speak clearly, surprised at the contrast between her own voice and the fear and regret just under the surface.

"Hi, Mrs Hudson. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine dear. It's just my hip, you know... but I mustn't grumble. It's lovely to see you anyway. Are you visiting Sherlock?"

"Um… yes, is he in?

Sherlock, technically her godparent, although she knew he didn't really go in for all of that. She felt ridiculous now, wanting to turn and go, but she couldn't because she would have to go back out past Mrs Hudson again.

…

Rachel sat looking around the familiar room; dark and cluttered and dusty. There was a weird chemical smell coming from the apparatus on the table. She shuffled, sitting up straight to try to feel more adult, and then, feeling uncomfortable like that, leaned back into the chair. She still felt uncomfortable.

Sherlock had offered her the client chair. Now he was making her a cup of tea.

Sherlock looked at her warily, she thought, as he set the tea-tray down. 'Uncle' Sherlock. He'd been one of those permanent fixtures of her life. Had been at every family event since she was a child. She wondered why he had never found a partner… a boyfriend, she supposed it would be. Maybe someone had broken his heart once. She had wondered what it would be like if Sherlock was her dad, instead of John. Sherlock was more mysterious, more interesting… less angry.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, opposite, assessing her with his keen pale eyes and then finally broke the silence, speaking dismissively.

"Not my department", he said, simply.

"Sorry?" Rachel whispered, wide-eyed and cradling the tea-cup defensively in both hands.

"Not my area of expertise. I can't help you. I'm afraid. You'll have to find someone else; speak to your mother, speak to a counsellor".

Rachel felt a falling sensation in her head, as her heart beat harder. Surely Sherlock didn't _know. _No-one else knew. She'd been careful about that.

"What? How did you…?"

"You lifted your tea-cup in an awkward fashion, indicating you're in pain and concerned about doing further damage. You don't play any sport, and I'm not aware you've been in any accidents. So how came by your injuries is ambiguous. However, couple that with the fact that you're wearing long sleeves in 27 degree heat, you're sweating, and obviously affected by the temperature, and it suggests that you don't wish to display the nature of your affliction.

"You clearly came here for a purpose. You obviously hold me in some… affection, but you're not in the habit, usually, of just turning up. You're here because you want help. It's fairly obvious that you've deliberately hurt your arms in some way, probably cutting, and not, I imagine, the first time." Sherlock spoke quickly, and evenly, but at the end of the last sentence he slowed down a touch, his voice changing slightly, his face showing a fleeting hint of some indeterminate emotion.

Rachel stared at her tea cup and felt sick. There was perhaps a fragment of her that was glad someone knew. But having this conversation was cementing the reality of the situation, and it was horrible.

"There are also… other indicators." Sherlock broke off, as if he had been about to say something else and decided against it. "An ungenerous person might argue that you coming here is merely attention-seeking. However, I imagine you're here because it's reached a level beyond your control and now you need someone to be accountable to. As I said, this is NOT my area of expertise. I am not the right person to help you with this."

Rachel tried to process what Sherlock had just told her. She briefly wondered how Sherlock seemed to know more of her mind than she did. Is that why she was here? To try to put the brakes on a habit that was out of her control. She supposed it was. It had been a bad idea, and now she felt stupid. Why would Sherlock want to know about this?

"OK", Rachel seemed unable to say anything else. She felt like a worm next to Sherlock's brilliance.

Sherlock looked at her awkwardly, "Would you like me to phone your mother?"

Rachel wasn't sure. She'd come this far and part of her just wanted to blow the whole thing wide open. She wasn't sure she could contain all of this on her own any more. But the thought of having to tell this to her mum, of having to disappoint her in this way. She couldn't bear it.

"No… thanks." Rachel got up to leave.

"Um, you're alright though?" Sherlock asked quickly

Rachel froze where she was standing, not sure what the question was meant to mean. Not sure what to tell him.

"I mean, you don't need medical intervention?" he amended quickly.

"Oh, no. I'm fine. It's OK." Rachel said, her eyes looking slightly past Sherlock's.

"You're not thinking about ending it all?" His voice was low and sincere.

"No", Rachel replied emphatically, "That's not why I did it... I wouldn't"

Sherlock's searching eyes looked straight into hers. She felt completely exposed; all her guilty secrets flooded with light.

He nodded slightly, and then just stood, waiting for her to leave.

Rachel walked out through the door, feeling the lowest she had ever felt. She stood outside the closed door of 221B, blinking in the sunshine and wondered where to go from there.


	2. Bored with knives

Rachel's house was full of people. It was suffocating.

John and Mary had invited numerous friends and relatives over for Sunday lunch; including Sherlock. Rachel had attempted to enjoy roast beef with all the trimmings, and the amazing desert her mum had made; but making small talk was crippling, and Sherlock's presence was making her feel miserable. Finally, the guests had settled in the lounge with coffee and after dinner drinks. Rachel had gratefully retreated to the refuge of the kitchen, using the offer of tackling the washing-up as an excuse to be by herself, but now she was encountering a logistical problem.

Rachel was lost in her thoughts when the sound of the kitchen door opening made her jump. She realised that someone else had entered the kitchen, and then she immediately tensed as she saw it was Sherlock. She felt her face redden, and she focussed down on the glass she was washing-up.

Sherlock took a tea-towel and started drying up the glasses on the draining board, without saying a word.

Rachel continued to try to wash up without rolling up her sleeves, but the ends were becoming wet where they were touching the water. She tried to concentrate on what she was doing, but she was acutely aware of Sherlock's eyes boring into her. She felt utterly wretched.

"We can swap if you like." Sherlock finally broke the silence, holding out the tea-towel.

"I'm fine," Rachel said, her face fiery now.

They continued their chores in silence for a few moments.

"Did you talk to someone?", Sherlock asked, picking up another glass.

"No."

"Why not?"

Why not? Why hadn't she casually dropped it into the conversation with her friends at school? Or why hadn't she sat both her parents down at the dining room table and shown them what she'd been doing, and brought all three of their worlds collapsing down around them?

She laughed wryly, slightly bitterly, at Sherlock's question. Then, suddenly feeling brave, looked up at him.

"I wanted to talk to you."

Sherlock stood without speaking, looking lost. "Why me?" he finally said.

"I don't know. It's like...it's like you might understand it." She paused and then continued quietly, "It's like you're hurt too".

Sherlock sighed.

"I can't help you Rachel I... I can barely manage my own impulses." He stopped suddenly, clearly having said too much.

Rachel looked up at him curiously, and then went back to the washing up.

She looked at the glass she'd just picked up, for a little too long. It wouldn't take much to break it, she thought.

She was at the stage where everything she touched became a weapon. She knew how it would end. She could fight it for days and days, but eventually she would stop resisting. Eventually she would believe it was justified.

Rachel placed the glass into the water, trying to avoid getting her wounds wet. They'd got to an itchy, uncomfortable, inflamed stage. She thought it probably meant they were healing.

Sherlock studied her studying the glass.

"Well, what did you want to talk about?" he asked, with a hint of frustration.

"I just... I think I just need someone to get it. To understand."

"Well it's perfectly simple. Physical injury releases beta endorphins in the brain. These act as endogenous opioids, which in turn reduce tension and emotional distress. There's a completely logical explanation." Sherlock spoke as if citing an encyclopaedia.

Rachel looked up at him, surprised at his straight-forward explanation.

"You don't think I'm weird?"

Sherlock looked away from her. Rachel thought he looked amused, and her heart sank.

Just then Mary came in and seeing them doing the washing-up together, beamed at them both.

"Nice to see you two bonding", she said to Sherlock teasingly.

"We were simply washing up," replied Sherlock, as if an explanation was needed.

...

"I trust that the glass is still intact. SH"

Rachel took a sharp breath in, as she looked at her phone. She wasn't used to receiving text messages from Sherlock.

It was 11:45. All the guests had departed and Mary and John had gone to bed.

Rachel was tired, but wasn't able to wind down. Something in her mind wanted closure and couldn't yet call it a day. She had reached stalemate. She couldn't sleep with that feeling still inside her. But she was growing more tired as the minutes ticked on.

Not-cutting had become a game. She knew the rules by now; had worked them out all by herself. But it was exhausting and she didn't want to play any more. The game worked like this: there was a percentage of her that wanted to cut and a percentage that didn't. If the part that wanted to cut went over fifty percent, then that side wins.

Rachel knew the moves that gave her an advantage in the game: eating regularly, music (except for certain songs), walking, meeting up with her friends. Especially meeting up with her friends when she desperately want to be by herself.

Sleep. Sleep was important.

Rachel knew she could delay the game's outcome, but it was soul-destroying playing a game when your opponent always wins.

Although technically she was the opponent too.

"Glass still intact RW"

She hesitated before sending the next message. As soon as it had gone she wanted to grab it back, but it was too late.

"Emergency razor blades still in box RW"

"Approximate distance to box? SH"

"2 metres approx RW"

"Don't go below 1 metre. Get some sleep SH"

Rachel smiled to herself. Maybe Sherlock understood more than just the scientific theory. Maybe he somehow also understood the game a bit too.

She climbed into bed and slept until morning.

...

At 221B, Sherlock watched his phone for a while longer. There was no reply to his last text and finally he sank back into his armchair. His eyes strayed momentarily to a place on his cluttered shelves, and paused there for a moment.

Then, purposefully, he rose to his feet and went though to the kitchen. Turning on the kettle, he began to make himself another cup of tea. Then he went back to the table and pulled up some notes on his laptop, immersing himself in another case.


	3. The price of being the best

It was another warm day; the sun attempting to shine through the layers of grime and the mismatched blinds of the windows of 221B. Mrs Hudson had kindly brought in extra biscuits for Rachel, but now she seemed apprehensive; maybe picking up on something in the atmosphere of the room. She looked from Rachel to Sherlock and then left without a word.

Rachel looked over at Sherlock. He was sitting in his usual chair, his long legs tucked to one side, his fingers restlessly tapping the chair arm.

Rachel gazed around the flat awkwardly before finally finding her voice. "I know what you said about ...endorphins and natural opiates and stuff. But, I just wish that I was a bit more... normal."

"No you don't", Sherlock replied quickly.

Rachel regarded him, puzzled.

"You frequently have dark rings under your eyes, you're often yawning, even mid-week. I don't imagine you've been out all night partying. You've been up studying; for hours, probably. You've had two awards for maths, this year. Have you ever been awarded a grade that wasn't an A?"

Rachel shook her head and couldn't help a small smile of pride, even as she despised herself for it.

"I didn't deduce that, by the way. Your father supplied me with that information. You don't push yourself like that because you want to be ordinary. You act in that way because you want to be different."

Rachel suspected he might be right. Maybe it wasn't just pain that she was addicted to.

"Anyway", Sherlock continued, "genetically the odds were very much stacked against you being anything other than a highly-intelligent adrenaline-addict."

Sherlock's voice was still serious, but there was a hint of a smile around his eyes when he said that.

Rachel stood up and walked over to the one photo that he kept in his flat. It was a picture of her mum and dad and Sherlock in their wedding outfits, all smiling. She picked up the photo, in its frame, studying it.

Rachel knew that her mum had already been pregnant with her by then, but Mary didn't look it in the photo. Rachel knew she had come along quite soon after her parents got together.

"How did you get your scar?" she asked, scrutinising the faces in the photo.

She sat down to listen to his answer. Not on the client chair this time, but on the chair normally reserved for her dad. Sherlock didn't object.

"Which...?"

"The one on your mouth."

Sherlock hesitated, and then broke into a broad smile. His mouth was really wide when he smiled.

"That was from when your dad punched me", he said, still smiling.

Rachel laughed and shook her head. She couldn't work out if it was a joke.

"He really did", Sherlock insisted.

Rachel just continued to smile back in a bemused way. Then she looked down, slightly sadly.

"Sometimes dad gets... really angry. Just at nothing at all."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

"Rachel, until your father asked me to be his best man, it wasn't obvious to me that I was his best friend. But he had always assumed that it _was_ obvious to me; because it was apparently obvious to him, and to everyone else.

"Similarly, it may not be obvious to you that you father holds you in the deepest and utmost affection. But it is obvious to me that that is the case. I'm no expert in these matters, but above and beyond the purely biological bond, I believe your father is completely besotted with you. He worries about you constantly, he talks about you...

"He talks about me?" Rachel wondered what sort of things he said.

"Yes, incessantly. It's extremely tedious", Sherlock said, with genuine feeling.

"Oh", Rachel felt tears welling up unexpectedly. She wished she could cry at more convenient times; like when she was on her own.

"And as for his occasional outbursts of rage... well, it's a pity he can't manage himself more adequately; unlike the rest of us, who are in complete control of ourselves the entire time." He looked at her meaningfully. Rachel gave him a watery smile. For some reason she could take that from him. She suspected that he was talking about himself as much as he was about her.

There was an awkward silence. Rachel played with her tea-cup, but she'd finished all her tea now, so there was nothing to hide behind.

"Rachel?" Sherlock asked, in a grave voice.

Rachel looked at him with wide questioning eyes.

"Would you like to help me perform some chemical tests on a human eyeball?"

Rachel's eyes lit up, "Oh, yes please."


	4. I don't want to lose this

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone reading along, and especially to everyone who has reviewed. I wish I could reply personally to the Guests who have reviewed, but I just wanted to say, if you're still reading this, that your reviews mean such a lot. Thank you. There's a tiny bit more sunshine in this next chapter (!)**

...

Rachel sat in front of her computer, deleting song tracks from her iTunes library. Mary walked through, behind where she was sitting, and Rachel paused, irritated. The song clear-out was part of a larger clear-out and Rachel didn't want Mary looking at the screen and wondering what she was doing.

Rachel used to be close to her mum, but, even so, had always felt like there was some kind of splinter in their relationship, something unknown she just couldn't put her finger on, and, between them now it felt like a vast chasm of empty space.

Rachel had, already that morning, filled a bag with various bits and thrown it in the dustbin, being careful to put some other household rubbish on top. The bag had contained her box of old-fashioned razor blades and some pencil sharpeners, amongst other things; and her pyjamas that had eventually gone nasty under her bed.

The clean-out could only ever be symbolic. In a house with a kitchen, and where you have no control of your surroundings, the possibilities were always endless.

After Rachel had deleted all her cutting music, she went to visit Sherlock.

...

"I imagine coming here had some purpose?" Sherlock looked like a fish out of water, sitting on the park bench with Rachel sitting beside.

"Two purposes, actually."

"And they are?"

"Sunlight. Sunlight helps improve my mood", she glanced sideways at the pallid individual next to her.

"And…?"

"And, I like to see you deduce things about people. There are lots of people here to deduce."

"I don't do it to order, Sherlock objected sulkily

"What about him?" Rachel ignored Sherlock's last complaint, indicating a middle-aged man, wearing a colourful tracksuit and jogging past.

"His wife's having an affair. He knows really, but doesn't want to admit it. He has two cats; actually they're his wife's cats."

Rachel grinned to herself and gave Sherlock a shy look, but with barely concealed admiration.

"Now deduce something about me", she invited Sherlock.

"No", Sherlock said emphatically, looking straight ahead.

Rachel wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

"Go on", she challenged, with the feisty directness that Sherlock recognised from Mary.

Sherlock paused and sighed, "Well, you haven't injured yourself since I saw you, anyway." He continued looking straight ahead, seemingly more interested in the passers-by than in what he was saying to Rachel.

Rachel stopped smiling.

"Do you want to?" Sherlock continued.

Rachel's stomach tightened slightly at the question and she started picking the edges of her nails.

"Um, kind of 30 percent", she offered.

"Too high", commented Sherlock. Rachel loved the way he pronounced the 'H' when he said 'high'.

"Is the sunlight helping?" Sherlock continued.

"A bit".

"How else can you reduce the percentage?"

"Well, there are lots of things you can use to distract yourself; ice cubes, elastic bands, raisins…"

"Raisins?" Sherlock asked incredulous.

"You just kind of examine them, and then eat them, very slowly." Rachel tried to explain. She shrugged, "Google it."

"Does it work?"

Rachel frowned, "It's not cutting".

"Anything else?" Sherlock prompted.

"Um...sometimes I throw stuff at the wall. Cushions, things like that... but one time I threw something hard, and it damaged the wallpaper", she looked slightly embarrassed.

"Well, it doesn't do to damage the wallpaper", Sherlock said, with feigned innocence, thinking of his unlucky landlady.

Sherlock stared downwards into the middle distance, as if he was trying to solve Rachel's percentage problem just by sheer brain power.

"I suppose it would be unethical to offer you a cigarette?"

"Sherlock!" Rachel sounded outraged.

"I'm just trying to think of ways to reduce your percentage."

"Yes but… why would I want to replace an addiction with another addiction? Also, cigarettes are really bad for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Rachel.

"Cutting is not going to give me cancer," she said sheepishly.

"No. Just potential blood-loss".

Rachel smiled wryly.

"Anyway, I don't really enjoy smoking", she admitted.

Sherlock looked incredulous "Really? So you've managed to become addicted to your own reaction to pain, but nicotine does nothing for you?" Sherlock studied her with a confused face, as if she was an ill-fitting clue at a crime scene. "Rachel, I'm starting to think you _are_ a bit weird."

Rachel was laughing now.

There was a pause, as Sherlock and Rachel watched the pram-walkers and joggers for a while.

"You don't… have any personal experience with this?" Rachel's question came tentatively, suddenly serious.

"No. I don't ", Sherlock replied simply.

"You do do something though?"

"Yes, I do do something. Well, I _used_ to do something."

"What did you do?"

"it's not something I want to talk about"

"Why not?"

Sherlock looked around at her "I don't want to give you ideas", he said in a superior way.

"Ideas? You just tried to get me smoking."

"Yes, well… that might have been a mistake. I'd be grateful if you didn't mention that to your father."

Rachel laughed at the irony.

"You don't want me to tell my dad that you tried to get his daughter smoking?"

"Yes, that... and I would also prefer you not to tell your dad that I still carry a supply of cigarettes. He never did think to look in the slipper." He said the last sentence in a smug undertone to himself, but it was lost on Rachel.

"So", Rachel continued her line of questioning "how did you stop doing whatever it was you were doing?"

Sherlock sat with a serious face for a few moments.

"Your father was very much instrumental in my recovery", he finally stated.

"Oh."

Rachel tried to imagine a much younger John and Sherlock, with her dad helping Sherlock with some kind of addiction. But the scenarios wouldn't play out in her head.

"So", she continued, relentless, "when was the last time you did whatever it is you were doing?"

She could tell Sherlock was losing patience slightly now, but he still answered.

"Well, there have been a few minor... incidents, fairly recently. Stupid things. They don't really count. Then there was the time just after I met your mother, although that was technically for a case. So, really the last time properly was... just after you were born."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. That was a long time.

"So, basically you're fine, now? You got better?"

"So it would seem", remarked Sherlock distractedly, suddenly very interested in looking at a young office worker who was walking past at that moment. "She's on the first day of her new job. She's nervous, and hasn't eaten any breakfast", he informed Rachel.

Rachel sat in the sunshine, listening to Sherlock's commentary and felt herself unwinding for the first time in a long time.


	5. Black dog on my shoulder

Rachel's phone buzzed in her pocket. It was probably Sherlock, but Rachel didn't want to think about that right now.

She picked up her school bag and headed towards the front door.

"Have a lovely day", Mary had somehow crept up on her; standing behind her.

Rachel gave what she hoped was a cheerful smile.

"Are you alright?" Mary asked gently.

"Still alright", growled Rachel sarcastically. It had been maybe the eleventh time that morning her mum had asked the question. The question was crowding her head-space, interrupting the rhythm of her thoughts. It was exhausting to keep trying to make the right faces and say the right things. Rachel just wanted to be left alone.

Whenever Mary started with the questions, she was like a prophet of doom: for the first day or so Rachel would believe her own assurances, and wonder at the concern; then on day two or three of her mother's questioning, the need would hit her like a train. Mary seemed to know before Rachel did.

...

It was Rachel's first thought when she woke up that morning, and her thought as she took her shower. It was her thought as she got her breakfast and as she put the things away again in the kitchen. There was a song playing on the radio that seemed to lighten the weight temporarily, and for the length of the song she was lost in the tangible essence of the melody. But immediately the song finished, the thought came crashing back in.

Rachel knew she had a choice to make: yes or no. She had to turn these invitations down, every time, without fail. One wrong answer and ...she'd be back at square one. It was a test for which the only pass mark was 100%.

Rachel sat on the school bus, her limbs feeling heavy and fingers aching, like nerves before an exam. The Black Dog was heavy on her shoulder, the sword hanging over her on an ever thinner thread. Besieged by a threat she couldn't keep out, as it already had it's roots embedded deep into her soul.

Her phoned buzzed again, another message from Sherlock.

Please answer my messages if convenient; if inconvenient answer anyway SH

Rachel ignored this message too.

...

Rachel sat in her Chemistry lesson, with her mind elsewhere. This was normally her favourite subject, but today Rachel's brain was full of wool and fuzz.

"Have another look at it", her teacher asked her, frustrated, indicating the chemical equations on the white-board.

Rachel stared blankly at the squiggles. There was nothing in the series of letters and numbers that her mind could maintain a grip on.

The teacher sighed and came over to her for a quiet word, "Why don't you take a break? Go and have an early lunch, and we'll continue this later."

Rachel self-consciously loaded her books back into her bag and left without making eye contact with her teacher. With her hand on the door-handle she heard her teacher's concerned voice quietly behind her, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, alright", she assured him, with a smile.

Everyone else was still at lessons. Rachel had the locker room to herself, and she went into a cubicle and locked the door.

Rachel knew it was out of kindness, or out of practicality that her chemistry teacher had dismissed her, but to her it seemed like a rejection; her teacher deeming she wasn't capable today; short of the mark.

She could never pin-point the moment when the balance tipped; until she saw the blood she was never sure if it had, or if it was still just a game. She took the rectangular blade from the pocket of her bag, the one that had somehow been missed in the clear-out, and removed the paper cover. It was so small, so light; so awesome.

She wondered briefly how much trouble you could be in for bringing a razor blade to school. Without thinking about it she pulled up a sleeve and found a space.

There was a time when she had almost... well obviously she hadn't enjoyed it. But there had been a kind of buzz about it, and a feeling that it made her... better, more unique, more complete. These days it was different. Her hatred for it was only just outweighed by her need.

The pain was almost a surprise on the first cut. As if the adverse effects had somehow been erased from her mind in the clamour to get to the feeling of comfort.

She watched the bright beads form, before making the second cut; deeper this time. Then again, savage with having held back for so long.

It had been so long since she had felt it. Everything that had been clamouring for attention in her head paled to insignificance. It was just her, and the familiar, consuming, bite of the blade, and the satisfying lines. Calm and redness and stillness and pain.

After Rachel had finished she sat for a moment, observing the damage to her arm, her head leaning on the cubicle wall.

She had tried to fight it; there was no question she had tried. But the beast always found her eventually; and, despite all her efforts, she had been outrun.

Game over.

Rachel was aware that the locker room would soon be flooded with students. She cleaned up quickly, as best she could, with the tissues she carried in her bag.

But the beast was uncaged now, and greedy for more, and, with nothing to lose, Rachel already had plans for her other arm, as soon as she got home.

...

Sherlock didn't seem pleased to see her this time. He appeared tired and dishevelled; actually that wasn't unusual with Uncle Sherlock. But today he looked as if he might crush her. He didn't say a word as he let her in.

This time Sherlock didn't offer her a seat, or any tea. They stood facing off in the room with the dark wallpaper and skulls and dust.

"Idiot", he hissed at her

"What...?"

"You know what", he said, indicating her arm.

"How did you...?"

"Oh, why do you need to ask?" he sounded intensely annoyed, "I know things."

Rachel stood, staring at him with her heart pumping. This was good; some straight talking, after all the secrets and holding back and squashing everything down. This was good.

"I need this right now", she hissed back fiercely. "It helps me. I've got exams coming up, and I can't afford not to be focused."

Sherlock looked at her witheringly. But she didn't feel withered.

"Life is never going to be plain sailing", he emphasised at her. He didn't shout. Not like John. But he didn't need to; every word he said drilled down into her.

"Do you think after these exams, there won't be another reason; another excuse? What's so important about these exams anyway?"

"If I don't do well in these exams, then I'm _ordinary_", she said slowly.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous", Sherlock threw back. "_How could you ever be ordinary?_ You asked for my help. What am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? What am I supposed to say to your parents if you end up in hospital, or worse? I've seen corpses that have bled out. I don't want that to be you."

Rachel took a sharp breath in. "I tried," Rachel spoke quietly now, "I did try. But I don't think I have a choice."

"_You have a choice; _maybe by the time you're sitting with the blade to your skin, you've already made that choice. But you had a choice this morning. You had the choice to _phone me._ You need to talk to someone," he said slowly. "Someone other than me. I can't do this. You can't do this either. You think you can cure this with... sunshine and wishful thinking. It's not working."

"I didn't want to phone you, and I don't want to talk to anyone else. I can't."

Sherlock looked exasperated, as if he was clutching at straws.

"Think about the damage you are doing to yourself? Aren't you going to regret that one day?"

"I might not live that long", she argued. "Anyway, it's my body. Why do I care about an area of skin that no-one will ever see? I still function. Scars don't matter."

"It's not just you that this is affecting," continued Sherlock, with pain in his expression.

Rachel's eyes flicked across to the photo of her mum and dad. There was a small twinge of remorse, and then she looked away.

"They don't know. They don't have to know".

Sherlock walked away, pacing the room, before squaring up to her again.

"Do you want to stay an addict?" he continued, angrier now, berating. "Do you want to wake up wondering how this could possibly be your life; to go crawling back to the same detestable thing over and over again?"

Rachel fixed furious eyes on Sherlock. People always said she had her father's eyes. "I never see you asking for help", she said. Sherlock blanched, as if his armour had been pierced.

He stood motionless, his face suddenly without expression.

Rachel left, trembling and sore, and suddenly very weary.


	6. Every crack can let light in

Rachel threw her school bag down on her bedroom floor, and flopped onto her bed. Her arm hurt as it made contact with the bed and she drank in the pain, letting it permeate her.

From in her pocket her phone buzzed; a text message for her. Rachel closed her eyes and swore at the phone without moving. She couldn't cope with any more communication today. She wished everything would go away.

Finally, after several minutes of not moving, curiosity got the better of her and she pulled the device from her pocket. It was a business card and it was from Sherlock.

She read the card and accompanying message.

My brother Mycroft assures me that these are the very best. It's confidential and all paid for. SH

It was the number of a counselling service.

Mycroft; Sherlock's terrifying older brother with the umbrella. Rachel had only met him a couple of times. Did he know her secret too? Maybe he knew everything about everybody.

Rachel sat and looked at her phone for a long time before making the call.

...

The sun streamed through Rachel's bedroom window onto where Rachel sat, on the edge of the bed, shivering uncontrollably. She'd spoken to a receptionist, who had booked her in. She hadn't had to say what it was about, but she'd made the appointment.

A knock on Rachel's bedroom door made her jump. Mary peeped around the door. She was holding two mugs of tea and smiled affectionately on seeing Rachel.

Mary placed the tea on Rachel's desk, and sat down beside her on the bed.

"Are you alright, love?" she asked, gently but determinedly.

Rachel looked up at her mother, still trembling from her phone-call, wide-eyed and unable to pretend any more, and yet unable to speak from the shame and enormity of her situation, and the distance between them.

She saw the familiar, comforting face, together with tired eyes. Then she felt Mary's arms wrap gently around her, trapping her with an embrace she was too broken to return or to resist. Instead she closed her own eyes tightly, suddenly feeling like a small child again; abandoning her perfectly constructed world for the immediate warmth and safety of being held.

...

Sherlock sat in his chair at 221B re-reading the text from Mary. He smiled sadly and put his phone down on the table.

He looked over at John's chair; the chair of the man who had saved him, but who was no longer living with him. There had been so many times, earlier on, when Sherlock had wished John would just disappear, so he could continue with the business of destroying himself. But John had refused to disappear; had gently and resolutely continued to remind Sherlock of all those reasons, medical and otherwise, not to carry on with what he was doing.

But more than that John had made Sherlock believe that there was something in him that was worth saving.

Sherlock was acutely aware of the emptiness of that chair now. He had no case to work on currently, and engaging with Rachel had opened up all the rawness of those old drives and thought patterns.

Sherlock rose and took a few paces towards the box on his shelf. The box reserved for emergencies. He paused and stood, motionless, considering in his mind, his eyes gazing slightly downwards.

Searching his mind-palace, Sherlock recalled the years of cases that he had been able to solve with a clear focus; endlessly grateful for the months and years at a time when he hadn't even remembered that box; for having a body that was not constantly screaming at him, and arms with no recent marks.

He could go and examine that box, but, then today was not an emergency.

And neither had the previous day been, or the many, many days before that.

Sherlock turned and instead picked up his violin. He was soon lost in its tune; a soothing, dreamy lullaby. And the fiend, whose eyes had opened just a crack, grew drowsy again, turned over and settled back to its slumber; maybe to sleep again for a long, long time.

...

_"You have suffered enough_  
_And warred with yourself_  
_It's time that you won"_

Glen Hansard - Falling Slowly

...

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone who followed, favourited or reviewed; Anniewaterbabyc, AwesomeCheeze, GenBou93, I heart Reid 23, ImaginedWorlds, Julkula, LFJohnson99, Little-bit-ofSherlock-Holmes, Sockentorte, TheGyrhan, Thecumerbitch, ameerawrites, cathernatural.812, doctor-wholittle, elfmaiden4legs, paulaarushing, starsofimagination, thewhiphandsdaughter, trenchcoatandtie, wibblywobblytimeywimey16, Casualtyabixx, Emsgotabox, Fire Kitty 12, Jisbon1996, xXEtherealDreamXx, Vienna Warren, Alice, June and Guest. Please take care everyone. **

**Particular thanks to Ennui Enigma for editing, encouragement, and virtual tea and biscuits after chapter 5.**


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